


The Care and Feeding Of A Kanima

by Lenore



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Community: kink_bingo, Dubious Consent, Gangbang, Humiliation, Id Fic, Multi, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot, Porn, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:52:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A ritual, they called it. Jackson doesn't really understand how it worked, just that this was his independence day. It didn't get rid of the kanima, or complete the transformation to werewolf, but it was an end to his being under somebody else's thumb. The kanima still craves a master, though. To keep control, Jackson has learned, occasionally he has to give up control.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Care and Feeding Of A Kanima

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the "masters doms slaves and subs" square of my Kink Bingo card. Thank you to my dear [](http://no-detective.livejournal.com/profile)[**no_detective**](http://no-detective.livejournal.com/) for the beta and for assuring me that this story wasn't too wrong to post. That being said...some warnings! This is total id fic, and there's wildly dubious consent, and kind of a humiliation vibe going on, and Jackson loves every moment of it. Please don't read if that's not your thing! Also, it was written before the finale, so not so canonical. What else can I say to scare you off? Let me think.

Jackson has always had a gift for getting his way. In kindergarten, his teacher Mrs. Cunningham tried to put him at a table with Marvin Hittlemeyer, the playground's most notorious mouth-breather, and Jackson took care of that situation by crossing his arms over his five-year-old chest and reminding her who his father was. Just like that, he was sitting at the table with the popular kids where he belonged.

It's one of his best-kept secrets that he got over the fact that he's adopted, more or less. At the very least, he long ago stopped being pissed at his adoptive parents. But he did learn something important from the experience—that holding out on the _I love you_ could be very useful. How else would he be driving his father's Porsche to school every day?

There's nothing secret about the fact that he holds the Beacon Hills High record for the most points scored in a lacrosse game, the most magazine subscriptions sold in the annual fundraising drive, and the most geeks shoved into the most lockers. He's especially proud of that last accomplishment. Jackson likes being in charge.

The kanima—well, the kanima is a different matter entirely.

Jackson parks in a patchy square of gravel at the side of Derek's house and eyes the charred wreck distastefully. They already know he's here, of course. They're _werewolves_. That doesn't mean he can't still turn around, go home, call Lydia. Have sex where he gets to be on top. Maybe. If he asks her nicely.

There's a restless, uneasy prickle in some deep, amphibian part of his brain when he thinks about driving away—okay, it's more like sheer panic—and he lets out a sigh and gets out of the car.

The years-old scent of carbon kicks up when he puts his foot on the first step, and he seriously would rather be anywhere else. Just this thought makes his inner kanima flex its talons, clawing a toehold into his psyche, a demanding beast, and he continues on up the steps.

When Gerard kicked it—something Jackson doesn't remember exactly, only as an echo of sensation, a distant loss—there was an opening, a dizzying freefall, and suddenly Stilinski was there, throwing foul-smelling crap in his face and saying all this nonsense. A ritual, they called it. Jackson doesn't really understand how it worked, just that this was his independence day. It didn't get rid of the kanima, or complete the transformation to werewolf, but it was an end to his being under somebody else's thumb.

The kanima still craves a master, though. To keep control, Jackson has learned, occasionally he has to give up control. So. Here he is.

Erica answers the door. "Look who it is," she calls out gleefully. "Jackson's come to play."

Attack a girl with a paralyzing toxin a few times, and she's a bitch forever.

Jackson steps inside without waiting to be invited, and the gang's all here, Jackson can sense them even if he doesn't see them, hanging out, doing—werewolf things. Whatever. He doesn't have all day. He just needs to get this kanima stuff taken care of and get on with his life.

Derek materializes out of the gloom. "Jackson. What brings you by?" He smiles, showing off sharp, white teeth in a blatant display of mockery.

Jackson would dearly love to say _fuck you_. Derek knows damned well why he's here. It's Derek's doing—well, that and the kanima's.

( _"Keep it under control, or I'll pick a new master for you," Derek had threatened after the ritual had succeeded. He'd said it with a significant look in Stilinski's direction._

_"Stilinski is not the boss of me," Jackson had bristled._

_"Also not his babysitter," Stilinski had chimed in._ )

Jackson doesn't really think Derek would do it, but—yeah. Better this than life as Stilinski's bitch.

Derek's amusement is palpable, and Jackson misses the good old days when no one laughed at him. It's even worse when Derek eyes the floor in front of him, silent direction delivered with a smirk. The kanima tugs eagerly forward, and Jackson can already feel the rough boards beneath his knees. Not that this does anything for him, of course. That's all the kanima.

There's something like a ritual to this too—or maybe it's just a habit. Jackson kneels, undoes Derek's belt and opens his jeans, and Derek doesn't lift a finger, not to help or hinder him. Doesn't take charge. That will come later. This, now, is more like— _paying tribute_ is a phrase that comes to mind, which makes Jackson scowl.

Derek, the asshole, always makes him work for it this first go-around. He's not even all the way hard when Jackson takes him in his mouth, and he licks and sucks and does tricks with his tongue. Trying, trying everything he can think of, because all he wants—uh, the kanima—all the _kanima_ wants is to get Derek to come on his tongue. There's a burning ache in the back of his throat where he, where the _kanima_ wants Derek's cock, thrusting, battering. The kanima lives to serve.

It tastes like triumph when he finally swallows down bitter salt, leaving the lacrosse captain part of him wondering how this became his definition of victory. The kanima, on the other hand, is just getting started.

"Not bad," Derek says, with an assessing tilt of the head.

Jackson glares up at him. That's bullshit! He's gotten good with his mouth. He knows he has. The kanima won't let him argue, though. The kanima meekly resolves to be better for Derek.

"Okay. My turn." Erica smiles, bright and evil.

The world has gone terribly wrong when he's the one down on his knees for her. For the class spaz. He remembers that time when she pissed herself. He got a lot of mileage out of that video on YouTube, back when life still made sense. At least, she's hot now, he supposes, and he'd really like to leer at her boobs, restore the natural balance of power a bit. But the kanima—Jackson keeps his eyes down, waiting, ready, for anything she wants to give him.

She laughs, a high, delighted cackle. "You want to be such a good boy for me, don't you, Jackson?"

With one hand, she hikes up her skirt, and with the other, she takes Jackson by the hair and presses his face between her legs. Jackson has always been more about getting oral than giving it, even when Lydia bitched him out about it, but he eagerly licks Erica's folds, getting her wet, flicking his tongue against her clit, her juice dripping from his chin. He knows what she likes, and the kanima wants to be a _very_ good boy for her.

Strong hands grab him by the hips—it's Boyd, Jackson knows that grip—and strip him out of his pants. He hasn't bothered to wear underwear. No point. Boyd presses a finger into him, testing, and Jackson hears Isaac ask, "Lube?"

"Nah. He's wet and ready."

There's snickering, which Jackson finds totally uncalled for. Coming ready to fuck simply saves time. Jackson does have other things to do. His resentment burns away the moment Boyd spreads him wide and sinks into him. The kanima breathes out in relief. This is what it needs.

Isaac takes Jackson's hand and guides it to his dick, and Jackson's hand reflexively curls into a fist and starts working, tighter on the down stroke, lighter on the up. He knows what Isaac likes too. By this point, Erica is riding his face, hand tight in his hair, coming in waves, and Jackson keeps desperately lapping, wanting more and more. Boyd is hot and thick in him, going deeper and harder with each thrust, and Isaac's cock jerks and twitches in his grip. The kanima feels comforted, feels _owned_.

When Erica pushes him away, he lets out a noise of protest—no, _the kanima_ does that—but Isaac takes him by the hair. "I've got something to fill you up." And Jackson relaxes a little.

Isaac isn't like Derek. He doesn't make Jackson work for it, not at all; he just shoves his cock into Jackson's throat and fucks like he wants to choke him. That should hurt probably, but _more, more_. The kanima is insatiable.

Boyd comes with a howl, and there's no condom, never is, because none of them can get sick, and the kanima demands this, the hot spurt inside him, making him feel taken, making him feel used, just the way he—the way the kanima likes it. Then Isaac is coming too, hot salt down Jackson's throat, and that makes it even better.

But still not quite enough.

The three of them melt away now that they've taken what they want, and that leaves only Derek. "You know what to do, Jackson." This is always the same too. Maybe werewolves need ritual as much as the kanima does. "Unless you want to leave, of course."

Maybe Jackson would like to—or okay, maybe not—but either way, the kanima won't let him. The kanima craves Derek. Maybe because Derek is the alpha. Or because Derek made him. Or maybe it's just because Derek is such an asshole. The kanima has never had much taste when it comes to choosing masters, not even the temporary ones.

Jackson throws off the rest of his clothes, because that's how this goes, and he gets down on the floor, ass up, cheek against the rough planks, thighs spread as wide as they'll go, straining, muscles burning. Anticipation coils in the pit of his stomach, and somewhere in the most primitive part of his hindbrain he can feel the kanima lashing its tail, nothing but instinct, eager to submit.

The percussive tread of Derek's boots on the floor vibrates along Jackson's back, a cascade from one vertebra to the next, until he's standing over Jackson. "Not going anywhere. That's what I thought."

The belt being undone makes an airy sound, and Jackson feels as much as hears the metal teeth of the zipper being lowered, and then Derek is kneeling behind him, and Jackson has the bite of denim against his skin. This is also just how it goes, Jackson naked and as spread wide as the laws of physics will allow, and Derek still mostly clothed. Jackson never fantasizes about that when he jerks off. Or at least, he doesn't do it very often.

"You smell like my pack." That's all Derek says before shoving into him.

Derek fucks like brutality is just the price of entry. "You can be such a pain in the ass," he says, which is ironic given the way he's pounding into Jackson, like he wants him never to be able to sit down again. "And the kanima can be annoying too," Derek adds, and Jackson would take issue with that, but he's too busy getting his brains fucked out of him. Or the kanima is. The point is: there's a lot of fucking going on.

He doesn't realize he's holding his breath, waiting for it, waiting, until he feels the rake of Derek's claws down his sides, and then he can breathe out again. He needs that, needs Derek taking him apart, literally and figuratively. It wouldn't be the same without it. Derek growls deep in his throat, and he's owning Jackson's insides, like Jackson's a toy made for his pleasure, and that's—Jackson's cock is so hard against his belly. The kanima loves this. Loves the way Derek fucks the hell out of him.

The howl Derek lets out when he comes rattles the walls, and his claws sink into Jackson's skin even deeper, and he's mastering Jackson inside and out, and that's what Jackson needs. Fucking finally. He splatters all over his stomach.

At this, the kanima settles down, slipping back into temporary hibernation, and Jackson pulls himself back together, drags on his clothes, wipes away the sticky stuff that's still left on his face. There's nothing he can do about the squelchy mess going on in his pants, and the kanima wouldn't let him anyway. The kanima likes being reminded.

The front door bangs opens, and Stilinski comes in, already talking. "Okay, so there's not that much out there about the djinn, mostly folklore and some—" He stops short when he notices Jackson. "What's he doing here?"

"Leaving," Derek says. "Weren't you, Jackson?"

The look Derek shoots him says: _Get out, do it now_. That's very interesting. Apparently, Derek doesn't want Stilinski to know about their little keeping-the-kanima-in-line arrangement. He files that tidbit of information away for the future. It could be useful at some point.

"Yeah," he says. "Later."

On the way out to the car, Jackson can hear Stilinski still prodding at Derek with questions about Jackson until Derek finally growls at him to get to the point about the djinn. Does that growl sound maybe a little affectionate?

Jackson smiles as he gets into his car, thinking about how he'll let Derek's dirty little secret slip the next time he sees Stilinski. The kanima is sated and sleeping for the moment, and Jackson can afford to have some fun. Yeah. He's still in charge here.


End file.
